Triumphant
by Sophiethepegasus
Summary: 'Gasoline should never play with Fire'. Cato/Clove. T for Suicide and Major Character Death.


I meet Clove Triumphant when we are both four. She wears little white and silver dresses and kicks her child-sized slip-ons against the rocks. My mother and Mother Triumphant are chatting, both wearing silver dresses down to their ankles.

–"Why not gold?" I asked my mother on her bed, snuggled up for my bedtime story.

"Well we're District 2 not District 1, child."

"That's not fair," I pouted, crossing my too-long arms.

Mother leaned in. "Don't let President Snow hear you or he'll sick some muttations on you!" Her fingers tickled me and we both laughed until the neighbours cried for us to "Shut up or we'll warn the peacekeepers and they'll whip you till you drop."-

Clove is shy, Mother Triumphant says. "My birthday's in December," I try. It works though. Clove smiles.

"Mine too! The twenty-first."

"The fourth, for me."

Clove giggles.

We run around for a bit, our feet slipping in mud made from last night's storm. Clove slips in the mud, falling to her gangly knees. Being a four-year-old, Clove starts to cry salty big tears.

I don't like it when Clove cries, I decide. So I run inside, looking for something that will make her stop. I find a lollipop that I'd been saving, and I run back outside. "Don't leave people when they're crying!" Mother scolds me, but I run to Clove and hand her the red lollipop. She stops crying and sticks it in her mouth, cherry assaulting her senses.

From then on we're inseparable, a force of nature.

Clove and I run through the streets, two bags of stolen candy in our arms. Laughter from two six-year-olds ricochets on the walls of an alley. Clove's inky mop of hair bounces on her head and my freckles are covered in shadow.

However, as we near the corner, two kids round it and we collide. I fall against the tarmac. "Hey!" Clove shouts, and helps me to my feet.

The kids who bowled us over are a boy and girl with dark green eyes and red hair. The girl has a black eye and a blood nose. The boy who bumped into me gets to his feet. He has skinned knees. He grins at us, exposing a missing tooth.

I check to make sure we have all the candy in the bags, and am pleased to see none has fallen out.

"Thith ith our turf," the girl says. She has a terrible affliction of a lisp. She growls at us, and we make out the 'S' in her sentences.

"No it isn't!" I say, crossing my arms. "Don't you know this is No Man's Land?"

"It's not anymore. This is the Troublesome Twins' alley."

They try to look intimidating, but they're not. Father would call them soft.

"Troublesome Twins? You're twins?" Clove asks.

"Yeah. Now give us some of that candy and you'll be allowed here."

So we found a seat under an overhanging roof, and we dished out candy. Clove, Winsy, Cobble, and me.

When we're eight, our mothers both fall ill. It's a version of Tuberculosis. Bad wine. My mother is the first one to die. She curls, ill against the white sheets and the faintly beeping machines. Vomit stinks up the place like a hellhole, and Mother bleeds from her lungs, staining her white teeth.

Her golden hair goes unbrushed, splayed out over the pillows. She has to wear a white cloth over her mouth, and her words go unspoken. The last time I see her, she turns to me and grins.

"And who's this handsome lad? Is he my nephew? Or just a visitor?"

"He's your son," the doctor says from the corner.

"Oh, really?!" Mother says, her face lighting up in a grin. I can't actually see her mouth, but her dark blue eyes crinkle at the edges. "My, I'm so lucky. What's your name, my handsome son?"

"Cato," I say quietly.

"Cato! That's my father's name too! Gosh, you look so wonderful. I love you so much. Too bad I don't get to stay with you more."

She dies the next day, lost amongst a winter wonderland of white walls and sheets.

Clove holds me while I cry.

Her mother dies a short time after, but differently. She overdoses on her painkillers, left alone by the doctors. When they find her, her eyes are half-open and glassy, her lips are parted and bloody, and vomit drips down her silver chest.

Mother Triumphant has fallen.

It's Clove's turn to cry, making small whimpers that turn into heartworn sobs, tears soaking into my shirt. She cries so little that I start crying, and then we're both crying, and then Winsy and Cobble join us, and we're just a pile of sad children.

At ten, I start training for the games. With Clove and the twins at my side, we stride into the building for the first time. Apparently it looks exactly like the Training Centre in the Capitol. The first-years look around in wonder at the weapons at our disposal.

"Wow," Cobble says beside me. "They're so _beautiful." _

A man talks about all the weaknesses and strengths of the weapons, and then we try to find our weapon.

I try my hand at a bow and arrow, but the arrow lands closer to the man than to the target. He shoots me a glare and I shrug.

I try the throwing knives, and they land on the outer ring. I skirt the ring, using different weapons. The final station is a sword. It's a lightweight one. I pick it up, and I _know _that this is _my _weapon. It's different from the others, except perhaps bows and arrows. This weapon is meant to _kill. _That's its purpose in the world.

Clove is fond of the knives. They fly at the targets, hitting the target 9 out of10 times.

Winsy is an axe-wielder. He sends them flying, severing dummy heads.

Cobble lives up to her name. She is good at camouflaging in the autumn, and snaring. She can hunt. That much is obvious. I wonder if she would be able to live outside the fence. Probably… she is fast and resourceful and sly. And she excels in hand-to-hand combat, pulling men to their feet, kicking legs out from under their body.

Afterwards, we sit in Clove's home, with her relapsed-alcoholic father sleeping, and we talk about our weapons.

"The key to killing something," Winsy says, "Is to dehumanise them. Think of them as animals. Then you could kill your own parents."

"I couldn't," Cobble says. "Well, probably. But not without trouble."

"Because you're dumb."

"Go die," she hisses, punching her brother in the cheek. Oh yeah. She also has a killer left hook.

Some twins grow apart, but Winsy and Cobble only grow closer. They're known to read each other's minds. Speak without words. They can sense each other's pain before it kicks into action.

An example of the last one played out when we were still ten. Winsy came running out looking for Cobble, in a blind panic. Three minutes later Cobble fell out of a tree and broke her scrawny right arm.

Their relationship is enviable.

We are sixteen and we are deadly. We hold our knives and spears and swords, and ram them into dummies so hard the point is visible through the other side. We are killers-in-training. No matter how hard I try I can't think of the other districts as pigpens.

We are sixteen and Winsy is chosen to volunteer.

Though only sixteen, Winsy is a killing machine; ruthless. His spears are sharpened to the point of being diamond-sharp. But his selling point is his biceps and his words.

When we're training, I'm not his friend. I'm simply a colleague. When we have arguments, he wins through a closed fist.

He stands on the podium with the applause of the crowd ringing in his ears. He grins at the crowd, victorious. _I will beat you. I will win for you. _Silent promises ring out.

From home, we watch him on the television, a muscled red-haired boy. He kills three…four people. He makes it to the final eight. And then the girl from District 1 slits his throat.

Not at first, of course. She cuts out his left eye first, then his ear is severed from its writhing body. She curls over the boy's remaining eye. "Love you, sweetie," she sneers before she cuts his throat and plunges her hand into his neck, ripping out his vocal cords.

She ties them around her own neck, knotting them together in a chain.

Winsy doesn't win.

After his death Cobble retreats. She doesn't go to training. At first it's 'part of the grieving process', but when a year goes by, things are serious.

One day I come to what was once hers and Winsy's house. I tread up the steps carefully, making sure not to startle her. I open the door to see Cobble standing there naked. Her ribs are a steel cage, so sharp they seem to be cutting through her skin.

A brittle voice cracks. "'Ello, Swordy."

I notice the bottles scattered across the wooden floor. Though it's midday, the blinds are still shut. A thin light skirts across the side of her silhouette.

"You're drunk, Cob."

"Nah," she slurs, "I'm stone sober." The lisp she had has gone, replaced with wobbling letters of all sorts. "You don' need to worry 'bout me. Winsy didn't when 'e volunteered."

"He thought he could win."

"But 'e _couldn't. _You wouldn't know, you aren't a twin." She swallowed. "I knew though, when I watched it. 'E didn't even put up a fight against the 1 girl."

"He was tied down."

"'E was _strong! _You know why 'e didn't? 'E was in love with the girly."

"What? He was sixteen!" I think the alcohol fumes are stinking up her brain.

"'E _did _love 'er. I can feel whatever 'e feels. And now 'e's dead. So 'orrible, to have a dead twin. You can feel 'em die. You feel their organs putrefying and you can feel the bugs eatin' 'em."

I walk to Cobble and placed my hands on her bony shoulders. "You're drunk," I repeat, and lie her down onto the bed and pull gold covers over her body.

Then she starts kicking. "No! Don't ya dare! Ya won't bury _me _alive, Swordy! I refuse it!"

She looks at me through hazy green eyes, red hair splayed out behind her like my Mother's when she died. I shake my head and leave the building.

A crowd is gathering at the entrance of the Career centre. Curious, Clove and I stand beneath, looking up at the roof. What I see terrifies the hell out of me. Cobble, red hair wild atop a face with sleepless eyes. Her bones jut. She is in a sprinting position, as if she's going to run on the air. Without thinking about what I'm doing, I run around to the back of the building.

I grab onto a ladder and hoist myself up. The wood creaks beneath me. I get to the metal roof and I run to save Cobble. I get to the roof behind her but I'm too late. She spreads invisible wings and jumps. I catch a glimpse of carrot-coloured hair.

Fighting a scream I run over to the edge and look down. Her bones jut out, arms splayed. Her head is turned to the side, a red trickle of blood slivering out of her mouth.

She's slipped through my fingers. How predictable that Cato Baringer would lose the full set of twins.

My legs shake underneath me, and I watch as a teacher comes, shrieks. I'm there and I watch as they pick her up and carry her away forever. She won't have a funeral. Nobody knew her well enough.

And still I stare down, until a small hand is placed on my shoulder. "Cato," she says in a voice like sleep. "It's okay."

It's Clove's and my annual shared birthday. We're eighteen. Drinking age. We've had alcohol before of course. Wincy and Cobble and Clove and I would steal from the liquor shop, bathing in wine and vodka and going to training with massive hangovers.

But now it comes to us, and Clove and I have shots of candy-coloured liquor. It's a wild party, but it feels different. There are two shadows on the floor where Winsy and Cobble should've danced. Clove and I watch them. I tell her about the night of drunken Cobble. She listens and holds my hand.

Eighteen. It's our year.

Clove and I stand upon the podium, our smiles making actors shameful. We pretend we don't know each other, but afterwards we visit each other. Clove is the only one who visits me. I'm the only one who sees her.

She sits down on the couch, and I take her callused hands. "How fitting," she says. "We're a deck of cards being cut up."

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"We're all going to die. We've got to pretend we don't know that when we go into the arena."

"Yeah." I have a strong urge to kiss her knuckles. "First Winsy, then Cobble, then us. Together again."

Clove leans forward, presses her lips to my neck. "For luck," she says before she leaves the room.

Our parade costumes are like the roman warriors we learned about in primary schools. Except the plates are gold. I remember an occasion where I whinged to Mother about how we weren't allowed to wear gold. Well, the universe seems to say, you're wearing gold you son of a bitch.

We are pulled by iron grey horses into the building, the crowd cheering at our costumes. One by one we go out, until- 12.

They should be hideous. They should be wearing miners' gear, but no, their clothes are art, set aflame. Their hands are held, unlike Clove and I, who stand stiffly apart. The Capitol's going wild. Clove hisses beside me.

I could kill that Girl On Fire.

The night before we have to impress the Gamemakers.

Clove and I sit in my quarters. Her legs are flung over a couch, her feet dangling as if from a noose. "We're going to have to kill each other in the Arena," she says, "Or someone else will."

"You told me that after we volunteered."

"I know. Just making sure you remembered."

"It doesn't bother me. I find I don't mind dying anymore. It used to scare me."

"Me too. I don't fear anything anymore."

Clove sits up and moves to wear I am, leaning her head on my shoulder. Her hair is darker than it's ever been, and it sticks out like a sore thumb against my pale skin.

"I never had a kiss in 2," she yawns, and I am painfully aware of her nose brushing my neck. I look down at her, a constellation of freckles on the bridge of her nose.

"Only one, for me," I smirk, "It was a dare for Cobble and I."

"I know that, idiot. I was _there_!" She gives a short laugh and slaps my shoulder with her olive hand.

"I could kiss you, if you want."

I feel Clove shake her head beside me. "Nah."

"Okay."

Clove, Brutus, Enobaria, Llewelyn, and I wait for the scores. I've got a ten, Clove as well. Her knives could scare anyone into delivering a good score. It goes through all the tributes. 11's girl, a 12-year-old, has somehow charmed the Gamemakers. She looks like a bird, dark hair ready to take flight.

Cobble couldn't fly.

The 12 boy has a 6, usual for those lower Districts. But the girl, the Girl On Fire. A giant eleven stares at us, two electric blue numbers. I sense Clove fisting her hands in anger.

Clove is dressed in a pink dress. She _hates _pink. But she smiles and giggles where she should. She captivates the audience with her quick wit. Her tongue is as fast and sharp as her knives, twerking and teasing all the edges needed.

Caesar is dressed in dark blue this year. It's a thick change from last year.

I voice my script, the cocky knight-in-shining-armour, before leaving the stage. My legs tremble beneath me; stagefright taking hold after I've stepped off.

I stumble to the chairs, watching as the 12 girl twirls, flaming skirts aflame.

After her, the 12 boy comes onstage, charming Flickerman with easy charm. 'She came her with me.' Bullshit.

It's a giant forest. We have our eyes on the Cornucopia, towering with loot. I look for Clove, Glimmer, Marvel, and Charlotte, the 4 girl. Weird name, if you ask me.

When we burst forth, I have to kill people. I break their necks before I get my sword, and I traverse into the depths. The 4 boy stares up at me, trembling. I slash the sword across his chest. _Dehumanize. DEHUMANIZE. _Winsy's words of wisdom spur me on, killing with fervour until our pack is the only thing left.

The 12 boy is in my grasp, and Clove's hand on my shoulder. "It's okay, Cato. He'll help us kill the girl. He loves her, but he loves his life more."

It's hard to put him down.

The girl is above us. We should be asleep, but Glimmer's elbow is pressed against my neck. Clove skewers a lizard, and I grin at her.

She doesn't grin back.

The anthem plays and I look at the faces through the gaps between the leaves. I killed a lot of them. It's when one's supposed to be asleep that your conscience bites you.

I hear a crack and I sit up, awake. Buzzing emanates from the hull of a Tracker Jacker nest. With a yell I get out of my sleeping bag and run around to where Clove sits. I hoist her up. "Awake! Everyone awake!"

More yells and screams from the 1's and Charlotte, but Clove and I run. We push through forage. The stings of the Tracker Jackers hurt like hell. The earth explodes before me. Mother lures me. "No! You're not real!" I hear the throbbing voice of Clove beside me.

We plunge into the river, the sores barely soothed. Marvel comes, but Glimmer and Charlotte don't. Dead.

The smoke lures us but the explosion of our loot lures us more. We sprint back to the clearing, and are greeted with an enormous cloud of black smoke. The mines that the 3 boy planted have backfired.

I yank the 3's arm and pull him into a headlock. With a flex of my arm he's dead. Clove sighs behind me. "Those idiots!" I yell. I ring my hands. A few minutes later there's a cannon. Please be the 12 girl.

Clove takes my hands in hers. "It's done, Cato. There's nothing we can do." I know. We know. We know we're supposed to die. But not of starvation! We were meant to have an arrow plunge through our chest, not die from rib penetration, or poisonous berries.

My eyes are wet with anger, but she soothes it. "We're safe," she says.

"I hate her! I hate that _fucking Girl On Fire! _And if that boy hasn't died yet, I'll cut his damn head off! That traitor!" I kick the 3's corpse. Clove cringes.

"I hate her too, Cato. But if we're going to get her we have to be cunning. My knives will cut her smart lips off." I nod.

Tears squeeze into the now-messy pile of dark hair. Clove presses a kiss to my neck, and I feel myself melting. "I could kill anyone, I think," I say, "As long as it's not you. I can't kill you."

"I know. You wouldn't kill me."

Clove has gone to kill her. There's a chance, now. That we both could win. We know that none of the 12's are dead, but he's dying. It's certain she'll be there. I'm sitting in wait for the remaining 11. I hear a word that sounds like my name. I run.

Onto the green plain, and Thresh is holding Clove by the hair, a brick in his hand. He raises it and… I slice his dark head off his shoulders. Clove falls to the ground, her breathing rugged.

"Did he hurt you?" I gasp, brushing dark hair from her eyes.

Clove shakes her head. She gulps down oxygen. I turn around to where 12 is now running from. Clove staggers to her feet. "Let's get our bags," I whisper, though there's no need.

It's food. It's a loaf of 2 bread, beautiful and white. With it is a piece of cheese. I moan at the scent.

"Don't, Cato. We have to save it."

"We're starving," I say, but I don't protest.

Once a day we tear a few strips of bread. Soon it's getting stale. We finish it. The girl from 5 dies one of the days.

We have a single day of peace, which Clove and I spend near the water. "I know we're on television," Clove says, "But I'm happy."

"I like you when you're happy," I reply, placing a hand on her waist. I lean down, press butterfly-soft kisses on her freckles. Her eyes close, and she pulls back before planting dry lips on mine.

The flaky skin of her upper lip moves against my soft ones. My palm is on the small of her back, lowering her down, down, down. Her tongue slides along my teeth. Our teeth knock a few times, but we know each other so well that it takes seconds to figure each other out.

Her arms burn around my neck, and I smile against the mould of her lips.

Eventually I pull back, and she shoots me a lazy smile, her fingers dancing on her stomach.

"When we get back, I'll let you do that more," she smirks.

The next day, however, Clove's and my calm is disrupted by barking. Immediately I know they're Capitol-sent. "Clove!" I shout, hoisting her to her feet. We run from the noises, faster than I thought was humanly possible. We shove through the 12's, not caring about anything except our lives.

Clove and I run to the Cornucopia. It looks like a saviour and it looks menacing. I lift Clove up, and then I follow. Just as usual. Nausea crawls up on me. We sit there, waiting for the 12's, and waiting for our assailants,

The girl and boy rush at the Cornucopia, and clamber up, followed by eight wolfish mutts. The girl gets up and tries to lift Loverboy up after her, but not before his leg is sliced through with three ten-inch claws.

He does it however. The girl gets to her feet, only to be faced by Clove and me. Clove has her knives.

We look down at the wolves after the sickening screech of metal is heard. I yell, planting my hands over my ears. And I pause.

Their eyes. Their collars. They're the tributes. I turn to the side and vomit.

Clove grabs a knife and sends it flying towards 12. "Katniss!" the boy shouts, grabbing her arm and pulling her out of the way.

"In love, eh?" Clove says as the knife flies past the 12 girl by inches. "We aren't fooled by your little trick. You know nothing about _love._"

Clove strides forward, slowly, eying them up. Suddenly she grabs the girl, putting a knife to her skin. Our soon-to-be-latest-victim struggles. The boy yells out and grabs the girl back. Clove slips on the cold metal.

"Clove!" I yell, running forward and helping her up. "You sons of bitches."

Clove runs forward, and out of nowhere a knife flies into the centre of 12's throat. The boy screams like fire. Clove and I round on him, and we push him to the dogs.

Long into the night we hear his screams. My body is heating up inside this body armour, but I don't have the strength to fight it.

Finally his cannon sounds and the dogs leave.

It's me and Clove.

We get to the ground and wait for the hovercraft. But then, a loud voice calls from the sky. "Dear Panem, I present to you the remaining two tributes of the 74th Hunger Games. Due to revision of the rules, the previous allowance has been revoked. Good luck to our last tributes, and Happy Hunger Games!"

My jaw drops. I stare at Clove… who I have to kill. Who I _won't _kill. "So now you have to kill me," I say.

Clove hesitates. And shakes her head.

"Why not? I'm not killing you." Clove grins.

She takes my hand. "Come with me."

Clove leads me to a bush full of delicious-looking purple berries. "They're what killed that 5 girl," she explains, picking a few and placing half of them in my palm.

I blink at her.

"We're already going to die, Cato. If we get out of this, we'll have nightmares for the rest of our lives. And remember what we know. We're both meant to die. Why slow it down?

Winsy died two years ago, then his twin, Cobble killed herself. Now us. Together again."

1…2…3! The berries pass my lips just as Claudius Templesmith spoke.

"Don't you dare stop," Clove hisses, or she would if she was speaking. The sweetness bursts between my teeth, and it's nice. They're ripe. A final luxury of Panem.

Then I feel burning in my stomach as I fall to the ground. Before my eyes everything flashes. _Don't save us. _I see Clove and Mother and Winsy and Cobble. Winsy being murdered by the 1 girl; Cobble poised for flight, Clove's lips against my own.

I see stolen candies, devoted twins. And then light. A silhouette of Clove Triumphant welcomes me home.


End file.
